Why was she arguing with him? Two seconds into an enclosed space alone and they were ripping into each other. She was not about to let her personal feelings about Shaine ruin the biggest case of her life.
“Just stop. We need to get into character. We are not Poppy Jones and Shaine Kelly, former lovers. We are two college kids without a care in the world, ready for a good time. Let’s keep to the script, shall we?”
“And what if I don’t think you’re up for this part?”
“Oh, that old argument again? Please, get some new material—that bit is tired.”
“I’m not kidding around. You’re not ready to take on a case like this. You can’t even be around me without switching to bitch-mode. How are you supposed to pull off melting into someone else’s skin when you can’t even handle your own?”
Poppy’s cheeks heated with embarrassment. Swallowing the bile that’d risen in her throat, she said stiffly, “I didn’t expect you to be on this case. It’s just taken me a minute to adjust. I worked my ass off to get on to this detail and nothing is going to keep me from closing it. Not even you. So if that means I have to pretend that there’s no history between us, I’ll find a way to do it.”
“You sure you can?”
This time she had the wherewithal to send him a withering glance. “Yes,” she answered. “I’ve managed to put you in my past before, I can do it again.”
“Good,” Shaine said. “Maybe that’ll keep you from getting shot this time.”
“Now who can’t let go of the past?” she retorted, freshly irritated even though she knew she needed to put a cap on it. “I’m not the only agent who’s been shot in the line of duty.”
“No. But you were the only one I was in love with,” Shaine said.
“That was a long time ago.”
“Yeah, it was.”
“So don’t bring it up again. I’m a better agent today than I was then. Leave it at that.”
Shaine accepted her answer with a short nod and did, indeed, leave it, which was surprising. To her memory, Shaine rarely let anyone else have the final word—on that topic.
Only because he had another bone to pick.
“You really think you can pull off being a stripper?” he asked.
“And why is that so hard to believe?”
“Because you’re more modest than most. You wore a one-piece to the beach.”
“I also wore a hat. Skin cancer is no joke. It had nothing to do with my comfort level. If the ozone layer wasn’t an issue, I’d run around naked if I could.”
“Oh, c’mon, who are you trying to convince? Me or yourself? This is dangerous, Poppy.”
His condescension scraped against her nerves. “It kills you that I’m on this team, not because of my qualifications, but because of our history. If anyone can’t let go of the past, it’s you,” Poppy said.
“Honey, I let go a long time ago,” he disagreed. “I just don’t feel like dying because you don’t know what you’re doing. There’s an art to going deep cover and I don’t think you have what it takes.”
Poppy resisted the urge to snap back. He was baiting her purposefully.
What an ass.
“Well, thankfully, you’re not in charge and it wasn’t your call. I’m here... Get used to it.”
Shaine shook his head as if he wasn’t going to waste more time arguing and she was glad. She didn’t know how much longer she could keep her cool and the last thing she wanted to do was give Shaine any kind of valid reason to have her tossed from the case.
They arrived at the apartment fourplex, a gray building with nothing charming or exciting about it, and walked around to the back where the two apartments they were to occupy were situated.
From a defensive standpoint, the place was deceptively secure, which was why it was owned by the Miami DEA office as the newest safe house used for informants needing a place to hide before their testimony.
There were also hidden cameras in the narrow alleyway that fed into the four apartments so no one could sneak up on anyone inside.
No more words were exchanged as they each disappeared into their apartments.
Poppy set her suitcase down and took a minute to compose herself.
Damn it.
Around Shaine she devolved into someone she swore she’d never be.
Surveying her new living environment, she saw it’d already been decorated to reflect the tastes of someone much younger, which was the part she was playing.
Shabby chic, repurposed furniture, a thrift-store sofa and a few picture frames featuring people she didn’t know were placed here and there.
This operation was costing a pretty penny.
Everyone expected results.
“So failure isn’t an option,” she murmured to herself as a reminder. “Time to get your game face on.”
Suddenly a door, which she’d assumed was a closet, opened and Shaine walked in.
“What the hell?” she exclaimed, not expecting Shaine to walk into her living room.
“Adjoining rooms,” he explained, surprised himself.
“Is there a lock?” she asked. The last thing she wanted was Shaine Kelly traipsing through her living room as if he had the right.
“Looks similar to a hotel room door.” He showed her how to lock it and then exited again. The sound of him locking the door from his side made her exhale. Had she actually been holding her breath?
Okay, so it made sense to have an adjoining room, for safety purposes if the DEA was housing someone who needed protection, but she could take care of herself.
Poppy grabbed her suitcase and went to the bedroom, finding more shabby chic, girly stuff—stuff for someone who was stuck between wanting to be an adult and still wanting to be a kid.
But she supposed that was pretty much what some college girls felt like.
Not that she had.
She’d been more than happy to leave behind all that crap.
Opening her closet she saw clothes already chosen to match her cover story.
Poppy lifted a skimpy shirt from the rack and frowned at how barely there it was.
Sure, she could pull it off, but it’d been a long time since she’d purposefully worn something so revealing.
Shaine’s earlier comment about the one-piece bathing suit came back to poke at her. Okay, so she preferred tailored suits to string bikinis and microminis. Sue me.
Poppy liked to leave something to the imagination, but there was no hiding the goods in these outfits.
“Good Lord,” Poppy murmured in faint distress as she pulled a tiny dress from the closet. A tight, formfitting number with a cutout where her cleavage would show, she wondered how she was supposed to wear a bra with this thing.
Or underwear for that matter.
Even a damn panty line would show.
Oh, well.
Her new motto was, “When in Miami...do as the